Thick with the smell of rich cigars, the fog of smoke burns my lungs. I watch the sweat roll down my glass and make a wet ring on the table as I listen to the sounds that fill the club. There is a beauty singing of suffering and it melts on my ears. Her voice rolls over the room, ricocheting off of the walls with smooth cadence. There is laughter bellowing through dense smoke. Innocent and light, their laughs lack experience with creatures like me.
I look around at my potential meals, trying to decide who my victim shall be when the waitress approaches my table. She twirls her hair and flirts, no doubt for a bigger tip. Noticing my glass of untouched rum, she asks if I want something different to drink. I smile at her deceivingly. I do want something different but it’s not on the menu. It’s holding one. It’s her.
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